


The Case of the Hudson Gems

by willowswhiten



Series: In Pursuit of Bees [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Badass, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowswhiten/pseuds/willowswhiten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's new relationship is threatened by a mystery involving their beloved landlady and her past. Can they protect Mrs Hudson, when there is a murderer on the loose with a vendetta against both her and Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ginger Biscuits and Domestic Dispute

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to 'The Man with the Twisted Heart', and has been on ff.net for a while now. It stands alone, I think, but why on earth wouldn't you chose to read both? Stay tuned for Mrs Hudson badassery and Mafia connections...

The list of Martha Evangeline Hudson's personality traits is long, varied and surprising. Few people know, for example, that she knows how to make origami paper cranes, or that her mother used to encourage her to pickpocket. Well, Sherlock had to learn that particular skill from somewhere, and there was no better teacher than the woman who had once stolen a live chicken from a children's petting zoo, hidden in the hood of her coat.

 

            She spent fifteen years married to a man she never speaks of, although she still thinks of him, sometimes. On some level, she still hates that version of herself, the version who used to let him hurt her over and over, but he's long since dead, and she long since forgave her younger self.

 

            She knows that love does foolish things to us. She is patient, almost to a fault – occasionally she'll have a moment of self-awareness when she babysits the attention-defict genius Mallory, or when she has one of her great-nephews attached to her leg and another to her neck as she tries to tidy up, and she'll realise she's a bloody saint. She can't help it, even though she imagines it would annoy her if she ever met anyone as patient as she is. She loves, deeply and completely, and she'll do absolutely anything for someone she loves.

 

            No matter how much of a weapons-grade wanker he happens to be.

 

            Sherlock 'Bloody-hell-what-have-you-let-him-do-now' Holmes stood in her doorway looking confused, betrayed, angry and hungry. Mrs Hudson looked him up and down, lingering momentarily with feminine appreciation over the Grecian lines of him, and decided he was in a mood and she was not – _I repeat, NOT_ – going to let herself be dragged into this again. Not today.

 

            It was generally easy to tell if he was in one of his moods. He tended not to be wearing clothing, and he would be brandishing something unsavoury.

 

            Today, he had fashioned one of her good tablecloths into a kilt of sorts, and he held before him a frozen tupperware of some unnamed red substance she was not going to look too closely at.

 

            'Dear, I don't have time for this today. There's actually something rather important happening  this afternoon, and I have to-'

 

            Sherlock bristled visibly that she wasn't going to react to his appearance. 'You bought new shoes. Sensible, smart. You're trying to wear them in. You're cooking biscuits – ginger, so you're feeling nervous. Queasy?' His brow furrowed and he dumped the tupperware on her nice, clean table, suddenly concerned. 'Are you alright, Mrs Hudson?'

 

            'Never you mind.' She stirred the butter melting over the hob and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. 'What have you gone and done now?'

 

            'I have no idea what you mean.' He held himself to his full height, his strong neck fully extended like an insolent, childish swan, one hand rising to cover the mark on his collarbone as if reassuring himself it was still there.

 

            'You're confused, which means you're still working through the conversation you had with Doctor Watson, trying to figure out what you did or said to cause the fight to happen. Fresh mark on your collarbone – really, I'd have thought a doctor would take better care of you than that – so you fought this morning. Maybe something to do with that disgusting thing you've left on my table?' She turned, and looked pointedly at the tablecloth. 'You were completely stark naked before you decided to come visit, weren't you? I have to say, Sherlock, I'm pleased you've started giving me the courtesy of covering your meat and veg when you pop round.'

 

            He blinked at her, then settled into a chair, pulling the tupperware protectively towards himself. 'I think I'm a bad influence on you.'

 

            'Dear, you're a bad influence on everyone. Except for the doctor.'

 

            'You're always on his side.'

 

            'Statistically, love, it's the right side to be on.'

 

            He grumbled something under his breath, then released a deep sigh and let his shoulders slump forwards. 'I've never done anything like this.'

 

            'This... do you mean having a boyfriend?'

 

            He made a face. 'I hate that word. It's... childish. He's not my boyfriend. John and I do not spend any time sitting in trees.'

 

            She sighed and removed the butter from the heat, beginning to fold it into the oat-and-flour mixture sitting on the counter. 'Mallory tried to explain that it's just a playground rhyme, Sherlock. It's not something expected of you. Although I have to say, I think John would make an excellent father.' She held the bowl against her chest and began counting out the number of times she mixed it, the way her grandmother had taught her. 'Fine. What is it you've never done?'

 

            'We lived together before, and it was fine. It wasn't complicated – John yelled at me and I did my experiments and everything was easy. But now... I keep expecting I'll do something unforgivable. After Reichenbach... I never expected him to forgive me. I assumed he wouldn't, actually, and I was able to cope with that. What I can't stand is the fact that I'm going to hurt him, and I won't be able to blame it on Moriarty or Mycroft or anyone but me. I have no experience, no basis for comparison!'

 

            'You don't need one. He loves you, the way you are. He's a bright man, Sherlock. He knows what he's getting into.'

 

            'But _why_?'

 

            'Why what, dear?' she asked, distracted again by the nervous energy in her belly. God, she wanted to go back to bed – as much as she adored Sherlock, she couldn't bear him today.

 

            'Why does he love me?'

 

            He said it with the voice of someone lost. There was no information in the mind palace for this, nothing to draw information from. A brief investigation into self-help books had produced more questions than results, and in the month since they had finally – god, that had been loud – consummated their relationship, there had been fights.

 

            None, however, more than usual. Mostly along the lines of _why is there never any milk_ or _I don't care if it's an experiment I am not going to get into that bed until you change the sheets_. Or, as it had been two nights previous and Mrs Hudson had been forced to put on her Alien Vs Predator DVD again, _you are not allowed to distract me from being mad at you by taking your shirt off, Sherlock!_

 

            'It makes no sense. I'm an addict, and everyone but him – and you – eventually gets tired of me. He looks at me with these big eyes and I don't know what to do; my mind completely stops.' He threw his hands into the air. 'That never happens! I don't know how to fix it, because my brain won't work! I can stand the yelling – he mostly does it to make himself feel better, he's never really angry. But this... I think I actually hurt him. He just went quiet, and he won't talk to me.'

 

            She grimaced and dipped her hand into the bowl of biscuit-batter, rolling a little ball between her palms. 'What did you do, Sherlock?'

 

            'It's this case, I think. Something went wrong last night, and I _had it under control_ , but he yelled and then he bit my neck and then all this other stuff happened-' a flush rose up that beautiful neck, settling high on his cheekbones, '-and then I woke up this morning and he didn't say anything at all. He just ignored me.'

 

            'Is that why you're in the nip?'

 

            'Nip?' he echoed, then his pale eyes cleared as understanding dawned. 'Oh, you mean I'm naked. Yes, previous experience does inform me that it's a relatively sure-fire way of making him like me again after he's had one of these irrational moods.'

 

            'It's only irrational to you, Sherlock, dear. To him, it's perfectly rational. He knows his own heart. I was hoping he would help you to learn yours.' She slid the baking tray into the oven and smoothed her hair away from her temples with her wrists, careful not to get dough on her temples. 'What happened last night?'

 

            'I died, a little bit.'

 

            Mrs Hudson dropped a wooden spoon and released a torrent of Cockney curses that made one elegant eyebrow on her tennant's forehead rise. 'You did what?'

 

            'Well, the murderer had dropped this woman into the Thames weighed down by a massive block of ice. She was a fifteen year old girl, whereas I am a physically fit adult male with experience swimming, so of course I followed her in, but my trousers got caught on a piece of metal , and my body temperature plummetted, so I started to lose conciousness and sink...'

 

            'My god, Sherlock!'

 

            'No, it's fine, because John had handcuffed the murderer to the bridge and he ran down and dragged me out. I was only technically dead for a few seconds, and the girl is perfectly fine.'

 

            Mrs Hudson's mind whirrled. 'You risked your life for a girl whose name you don't even know?'

 

            'She told me, I deleted it. Irrelevant, she was extremely tedious – kept crying and shivering.'

 

            'You can try to act callous, but you risked you life for a stranger. Why? You would never have done that... well, you would never have done that.'

 

            He looked ashamed and became suddenly extemely interested in his tupperware full of what she was beginning to suspect were toes.

 

            'She looked like Mallory, only a little older and a lot more hysterical. I knew from the missing person's report... I'd seen her photograph. John pointed out that she looked a little like her, and I kept imagining that it was Mallory. Of course, the only thing the two of them have at all in common is a confusing liking of pink and a Nigerian Hausa-tribe ancestry.'

 

            Despite how he tried to excuse it away, Mrs Hudson knew better. 'That's why he loves you, Sherlock. Because whatever you tell us – whatever you tell yourself – you are a good man.'

 

            'He's angry with me. Why?'

 

            'He almost lost you last night, dear. I think maybe you should actually try talking to him.'

 

            The colour deepened in Sherlock's pale skin and again he looked away. 'No. If we talk, I'll say something wrong and then he'll leave.'

 

            'You're being a child.' Mrs Hudson, normally so patient she once let her niece draw on her face with marker pen, finally snapped. He hadn't asked her why she was nervous, or maybe he had deduced and just didn't care, but it was not the right day to be pissing her off, and she would not put up with it. 'I'm on his side, Sherlock Holmes. John is the absolute best thing that's ever happened to you – you've done him wrong more often than not. You let him believe you were dead for a year, and I know better than anyone what that did to him.'

 

            The vacant expression, the spotless, cold flat. The lack of any noise except the doctor's slow, slippered pacing, the limp audible even through the floorboards. How much weight he'd lost, how his cheery face had been drawn, and gaunt.

 

            She loved Sherlock more than almost anything, but although John had forgiven him, she'd yet to properly forgive him.

 

            'You have to try to be worthy of him. Have you even told him you love him?'

 

            Sherlock's eyes were so pale, so distant. 'He must know. It's obvious.'

 

            'He needs to be told. He needs to hear it, love.' She slammed a cupboard door shut too hard. 'I know you're not good at this. You've had no practice, and my heart goes out to you, it really does. But he deserves better than a man who'll risk his life and not tell him where he's gone. Don't you understand that he can't lose you again? He so nearly didn't survive the last time.'

 

            He flinched, and she immediately felt guilty. He'd had his reasons, but reason had no place in love, and John had lost the man he'd never admitted to loving. Now that he'd told Sherlock how he felt, and the two of them had settled into something close to a normal relationship – nothing between them could ever be truly normal, the toes in the vegetable crisper saw to that – some of that had started to heal, but Sherlock was never one to change his ways. The consultant detective didn't know how to go about being loved the way that John loved him: with gentleness, without expectation or judgement. Mrs Hudson watched the way John's blue eyes softened and crinkled at the edges when looking at Sherlock, and love like that... it was kind, and precious.

 

            Goddamn it, it was worth something. She would give anything to be looked at like that again, and if Sherlock Bloody Holmes didn't find a way to bend instead of breaking, she'd...

 

            well, she'd stop baking for him. Although she wouldn't, because then he'd get too thin and she'd feel guilty.

 

            She'd turn off his hot water.

 

            Although seething on the inside, all she said to the mostly-naked man sitting with a box full of cadaver parts in her kitchen was this:

 

            'sort it out, dear. And for the love of all that is holy, accept that it's definitely your fault, whatever it is. Now get out of my kitchen – I've got work to be doing.'

 

            He smiled, that ridiculous face-mooshing smile which made everything alright and almost settled her nerves, and pressed a hand to her shoulder before disappearing.

 

            Leaving the box of severed digits. She stared at it, and then swore.

 

            'I hate to agree with anything Sally Donovan says, but if it were up to me all I'd need would be a smile and that boy would get away with murder,' she muttered, folding up her apron.

 

            She had a trial to go to.

 


	2. In Praise of Talkative Cabbies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John takes Gladstone for a longer walk than originally anticipated.

John took his chance when Sherlock disappeared downstairs to seek advice, and he leapt up from where he'd been working on his blog, grabbing the leash from where it lay on the sofa.

 

            'Gladstone?' he called, and was rewarded with a huffing, breathless bark and the familiar noise of claws sliding across wooden floors. Gladstone loved Sherlock, but her first loyalty was always to the man she'd been presented to as a gift one grim Wednesday afternoon. Only John's call had the power to rouse Gladstone from her nap-time. 'Come on, sweetheart, we're going to take a long walk.'

 

            At the word 'walk' and her keen deduction that the leash meant leaving the flat, Gladstone began the awkward hopping dance of a pure-bred bulldog puppy – this involved manoevering her squat little limbs into bizarre contortions as she tried to attach herself to John's legs.

 

            With a swift, practiced movement, he snapped her leash on and pulled on a coat and scarf, then let the flat and carried her down the stairs so that her footsteps wouldn't alert Sherlock to his departure.

 

            Once they were out on the street in front of Speedy's, John popped his collar up and allowed himself to follow whatever direction Gladstone decided to lead.

 

            Last night, he'd very nearly lost the only thing that mattered, and the thing in question didn't even understand what that had meant to him. No, the thing in question – with its ridiculous, got-mistaken-for-sales-assistant-in-Abercrombie&Fitch cheekbones – just kept on acting as though it was alright, as though doing that sort of thing was alright.

 

            The bastard. John kicked a pebble harder than he'd intended and stumbled a little, only serving to make him angrier. How dare Sherlock just keep on doing what he'd always done, risking life and limb for answers? Playing chicken with mad taxi drivers and pointing loaded guns at bombs had all been fine and well _before_ , but was it too much to ask that Sherlock might have realised things had changed?

 

            Sherlock hadn't told John he loved him. That was alright – John wasn't needy, didn't require a pledge of love to validate his own. God knows he would carry on loving Sherlock no matter what,  because he was just that far gone.

 

            He'd gotten past the stage where every tiny thing Sherlock did made him rock hard and aching – well, not past it, but it was more manageable now that he was actually allowed to act on those urges – and now he was fully, deeply into a new area. One as strange to him as all of this was to Sherlock, the man whose virginity John had taken great pleasure in ridding him of.

 

            John Hamish Watson was so deeply in love that it was giving him all the major symptoms of mental illness.

 

            He had absolutely no idea what half of the feelings in his chest meant. He'd never felt this way before, but then again, he'd never been in an actual relationship with a man, and never with anyone even in the same vague vicinity of Sherlock. The man was extraordinary and infuriating and  perfect. He found himself daydreaming about weird parts of the consultant's body – his soft, marble-skinned ribs, the dip at the base of his spine. The bow of his lip was the subject of not one but two terrible poems which would never, ever see the light of day and were hidden in a password-protected part of his laptop.

 

            He could spend hours just lying against Sherlock's body, drifting in an out of conciousness while Sherlock's mind darted around, the soft humming of Rachmaninov lulling him to sleep. Thinking of nothing in particular.

 

            And the man he loved so completely thought that it was perfectly alright to keep risking his life, over and over. As if he had no idea at all of something that John thought should be obvious: the more he risked himself, the more he risked all of John.

 

            It made him wonder if Sherlock cared at all, or if he was simply another experiment. Something which would be discarded – or worse, forgotten – once it had provided results.

 

            Every time he managed to convince himself that the Sherlock he knew was real; the strangely childlike man with pale, lost eyes who whimpered and keened with want when John touched him, Sherlock would do something to destroy that belief. He'd be unnecessarily cruel to someone who didn't deserve it. John knew better than anyone the need Sherlock had for answers, and that he saw no problem hurting people to get them, and that scared him.

 

            Because he knew, even as he savoured every moment when he had all of that furious, blissful, bright intelligence focused entirely on him, that eventually he would cease to provide Sherlock with answers.

 

            He normally had a thick skin when it came to Sherlock, but since they'd begun this romance, things had changed. He wasn't sure he'd be able to cope if Sherlock was suddenly, ruthlessly cruel the way he'd been two years and a lifetime ago, in Baskerville.

 

            How long would it be? He felt as if there was a timer hovering over his head, counting down to the inevitable moment when his heart would be broken. And because it was Sherlock, John knew he'd never recover. There could never be anyone for him.

 

            He was an idiot for letting himself fall so completely for someone as damaged and unaware as Sherlock Holmes. And dammit, even though he'd been ridiculously adorable this morning dancing around stark naked in an attempt to solve whatever was wrong between them, it wasn't enough.

 

            John had realised, last night while he was breathing into his lover's mouth and trying to restart his heart, that there was an expiry date on this dream-like state he'd been living in. That the love which was sustaining him, which was healing parts of him he hadn't realised were broken, was dependent on an unstable, flawed genius with absolutely no experience of being in a long-term realationship.

 

            He realised, with a start, that he'd been brooding long enough for Gladstone to lead him along the length of Euston Road and towards St Pancras station. She was looking at him, her fabulously ugly little face tilted to the side, in question.

 

            'It's alright, darling. Daddy's just realised that Papa is a monumental twat who's going to break his heart,' John said softly, bending to rub her ears. 'You'll be the product of a broken home. You'll probably grow up to have all sorts of personality disorders. Papa'll probably like you better for it, though, so you shouldn't worry.'

 

            He thought for a moment, then added, 'we need to stop by the chemist's on the way home. If he gets a cold from being in that freezing bloody river and I haven't got that sugary children's cough syrup he likes, he'll be a misery to live with.'

 

            He was about to add something, when he looked across the street and realised that the woman in the enormous black sunglasses and trenchcoat was, in fact, Mrs Hudson.

 

            She was standing awkwardly, almost nervously, her thin arms wrapped around herself, and even from a distance John could see she was pale. She looked like she was on her way to get a taxi from outside the trainstation, although why she hadn't just called one to Baker Street, he didn't know.

 

            Immediately, without thinking it through, he began to follow her, just far enough back so that she wouldn't catch sight of him. Something was wrong; she was holding herself differently, almost folded into herself, and she was walking with a certain amount of urgency in heels that were obviously brand new.

 

            Sherlock's myriad issues could be put on hold. Something was wrong with Mrs Hudson, and John was going to find out what and fix it, because he was a doctor and that's what he did. He fixed people. Just because he couldn't seem to fix Sherlock didn't mean he'd lost that.

 

            At the station, she flagged a taxi and slid into the back. Before the door closed, John managed to catch one word:

 

            'Strand.'

 

            John stood, staring after her, his mind whirring through all of the possible places she could be going and always coming back to the big one, the place he'd spent far too much time sitting in cold hallways waiting to be called up. The place where he'd had to sit in silence and watch Moriarty's stupid, darting tongue lap up a stick of gum, so self-satisfied and self-assured that it had taken every last ounce of John's willpower not to just to sock him in the jaw.

 

            Which begged the question: why was Mrs Hudson, whose only step away from the strictly 'normal' was being involved in John and Sherlock's lives, going to the Royal Courts of Justice?

 

            He climbed into another cab, and gave the instruction, settling himself in the far corner of the cab and allowed Gladstone to settle down over his lap.

 

            'What's 'is name?' the cabbie enquired, pleasantly enough. It wasn't his fault that after John's various bad experiences, he wasn't particularly a member of the London Cabbie fan-club.

 

            'Her name,' he corrected, lifting the top part of Gladstone so that she could be seen in the rear-view mirror, 'is Gladstone.'

 

            'Like the Prime Minister?' the cabbie asked, chuckling. 'Seems a bit strange, givin' that name to a bitch. Nineteenth century politcal satire isn't generally understood by the public.'

 

            'My partner seemed to find it funny.' John fought the idiotic urge to cover Glad's ears – he didn't appreciate his little girl being called a bitch, even if it was technically true.

 

            'You a lawyer, then?'

 

            Curse all talkative cabbies. 'I'm testifying,' he lied evenly.

 

            'The DeCavalcante case? Tell you, that's some interestin' stuff. Been readin' up on it, an' everythink – it's like the Godfather.'

 

            John sat up straighter and said a silent prayer of thanks to the God of talkative cabbies.

 

            'I'm a little behind on the case, actually – I'm being brought in as a professional witness, I'm not sure of the particulars.'

 

            'Fascinatin' stuff. Been pendin' for years, right, 'cause it's a tricky case; the Americans don't want to admit they sent 'im an 'is uncle 'ere in the first place, an' the Brits don't want to upset the Special Relationship, but fact is 'e killed English people on English soil, an' no matter what the DeCavalcante family want, 'e never committed no crime in the US, so they can't ask for 'im to be sent back for trial.'

 

            'Wait... is this a Mafia thing?' John asked, so astounded that he didn't try and push Gladstone off his lap as she peacefully started licking his coat. She had a strange affection for felt.

 

            The cabbie gave him an odd look in the rear-view mirror. 'You really don't know nuffin, do you? The DeCavalcantes are one of the biggest Mafia families in New York. FBI manages to get old  Sal DeCavalcante to testify against 'is brothers, after they kill off the other brother, leavin' 'is twin boys to be taken care of by Sal. Sal an' the boys get put into witness protection, sent over 'ere, and when they grow up, the boys are thugs. Apple don't fall far from the tree.'

 

            'Didn't their uncle stop them?'

 

            'E was a thug, an all,' the cabbie said with a goulish relish that reminded John painfully of Sherlock. _Focus,_ he reminded himself. 'Jus' cos he testified against 'is brothers, don't mean 'e wasn't a criminal. 'E raised those boys bad, and then one of them starts killin' pole dancers.'

 

            They pulled up outside the courthouse; no Mrs Hudson to be seen, but enough police cars and people in uniform to have John desperately hoping against hope that this would turn out to be Lestrade's division and he could talk his way into the building.

 

            Why didn't he ever read the newspapers? How could he have completely missed this trial? Had Mrs Hudson been related to one of the victims, and if so, how long had she been worrying and suffering over this?

 

            He felt queasy as he generously overpaid the cabbie and jumped out of the vehicle, dragging a reluctant Gladstone behind him. Mrs Hudson was a gentle, protective soul who put up with so much from the two of them, and he didn't want to think that they'd ignored something that could make her look so frail, ashen and unlike herself.

 

            As he stormed up to the building, he didn't see the pale-skinned man in the black coat step out of a cab behind him, or notice at all that he'd been followed nearly since he'd left the flat.

 

            Sherlock watched man and dog storm purposefully towards the courthouse and frowned, unsure of himself and unused to feeling that way.

 

            Of course he loved John. It was ridiculous that he might suspect otherwise, but apparently, John didn't think that way. He had to get inside the head of his prey, and ensure that John would be his, forever, leaving lovebites on his neck and needing gentling through the nightmares and listening with eyes shut in pleasure as Sherlock played violin.

 

            A whole new game was going to unfold, in which Sherlock was going to prove himself.

 

            And with that, he followed his love into middle of a murder trial.

 


	3. The Hudson Gems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg Lestrade offers tea and sympathy, and we learn a little about Martha Hudson's past.

Within the building, Gregory Lestrade was eating a marmalade pastry in a way that could only be classed as aggressive.

 

            It had been a really long day. It had started with a phone call at the inhuman hour of 7am from his ex-wife, and her shrill, annoying voice had set the tone for the rest of his day. He'd actually managed to snap his toothbrush in half, had run out of sugar for his coffee, and when he'd finally arrived at the office he'd been immediately accosted by Donovan, who had sourly informed him that he was required at the DeCavalcante case.

 

            The whole thing with the DeCavalcantes set his teeth on edge. He didn't like politics, and this whole thing with a witness-protection case gone wrong was far too complex for him. He'd already had to deal with four black-suited, sunglass-wearing Americans with sour dispositions, and one very pretty American laywer who'd been too distracted to notice he was flirting with her.

 

            He wasn't even sure why he was here. It had been four years since the murders, and he hadn't been head of any division back then – he wasn't even that aware of the details of the case, or which witnesses were being called. It was almost certainly true that he'd only been called up to bolster the number of British police officers of high rank present, as some kind of weird political gesture to counter the sheer number of CIA and FBI agents he'd seen roaming about.

 

            The pastry was gone, and he was left staring down at his empty fingers. At least it was a day he could spend away from the incessant whining of Anderson and Donovan.

 

            He might be cranky, but those two needed to be put on some sort of behavioural meds. He still hated himself for ever letting them get to him, and putting a grain of doubt in his mind about Sherlock.

 

            Sherlock wasn't easy to relate to, because he wasn't relatable. He was a completely different being from everyone else around him, and Greg got that. He'd grown up with a severely disabled brother – at least, that was what everyone had called Thom, but Greg had never seen it. All he'd seen was his big brother, clever and funny and trapped inside a body which couldn't support him. Not that Sherlock was like that; Greg knew that a lot of the consultant's issues were in his head, and that he was just too smart for his own good.

 

            He frowned at his now sticky hands. That was something Sherlock and Thom had in common: a love of sugary things. He made a mental note to head out to the seaside to visit Thom in his care home, and bring carrot cake.

 

            'Mr Lestrade?' the voice was weak, uncertain, and extremely familiar. Greg spun on his heel and found himself facing a very pale, nervous-looking Mrs Hudson.

 

            'Martha,' he said gently, immediately taking her arm, years of dealing with grieving family members and nervous witnessing coming to the fore. 'Are you alright? You look like you've seen sa ghost.'

 

            She winced. 'I'm supposed to be testifying, but I can't bear that room they're keeping us in. Don't suppose you know where I can find tea?'

 

            'You're testifying?' he echoed, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He realised, suddenly, that he didn't know much at all about Mrs Hudson, despite their joint efforts to keep Sherlock on the wagon and out of trouble.

 

            'It's a long story.'

 

            'I'd love to hear it, if you can bear to tell it. Come on, I'll take you to the private waiting room – they've got Earl Grey.' She smiled weakly, and nodded. 'I think you should sit down. You're a formidable lady, Martha Hudson, but you don't look like yourself at the moment.'

 

            She laughed weakly. 'Yes, I don't suppose I do. I'm sorry, it's just... I'd almost managed to put this all behind me.'

 

            Together they walked to a separate room off of the hall, guarded by people who inspected Lestrade's ID with too much interest for his liking. Granted, the photo was a few years old and his hair was darker, but it was still him.

 

            He settled her down in a sofa in the corner and brought her some tea. He remembered how she took it from many long nights they'd spent sitting in Sherlock's kitchen, patiently waiting out his cold turkey as he came down off the drugs. She reminded him too much of his own mother for him not to care for her, almost out of instinct, and she smiled at him appreciatively when he pressed the warm mug into her hands.

 

            'Thank you, Gregory.' She took a sip; she'd always drunk it so hot that it made Greg's tongue sting in sympathy. 'I'm sorry I'm not myself, but this... it's harder than I expected.'

 

            'Are you related to one of the victims?'

 

            'No.' Her eyes shut, and she breathed deeply; he knew from long experience that she was bracing herself for his disapproval. It was the way he'd spoken to his parents during his extremely awkward, bad-boy teenage years. 'I'm related to the murderer.'

 

            Greg bit his tongue, refusing to say anything. It didn't matter what this woman had done or who she'd been a lifetime ago; she was a good person now, and nothing would change that. If she chose to tell him more, he'd listen, but he wasn't going to make this harder on her.

 

            'Seems like a lifetime ago,' she said softly, into her mug. 'I was a primary school teacher in this awful school in the East End – really rough. The girls got pregnant young and the boys stole cars or wound up in prison, but it was somewhere you could really feel like you were making a difference.'

 

            'I know the sort of place,' he said, smiling.

 

            'I fell completely in love with them. How could I not? I've always been too fond of bruised and broken people.' She looked off into the distance, a million miles away. 'I suppose that's why I love Sherlock, even when he's insufferable. And they were such sweet, sad little boys. The Hudson Gems.'

 

            He blinked. 'Hudson Gems?'

 

            'They called themselves that,' she said, taking a sip of tea. 'Identical twins, and born on June seventh. Gemini, you know? They didn't trust anyone, flinched when I touched them. After a while, they started to let me in, and their uncle never picked them up on time after school, so they would sit with me in the teacher's lounge, and we'd play Scrabble.'

 

            'Wait... are you saying you used to teach Salvatore DeCavalcante's nephews?'

 

            'I didn't know that was his name until a few years ago. He called himself David Hudson, and the boys were – are – Jacob and Lucas.' She pressed the heel of her hands to her eyes and her shoulders shook. 'I'm sorry, Gregory. It's just... you don't know what it's like. He destroyed Jacob, and I couldn't do a thing to stop it. I was the closest thing he had to a mother, and I let him turn out just like David. Hurting women, killing... I should have protected him.'

 

            Greg tried hard not to choke on his tongue at the idea that Mrs Hudson – the most gentle, sweet-natured woman he'd ever known – had been married to a murderer, and had raised another.

 

            'And the other twin? Lucas?'

 

            It was as if a shutter had closed over Mrs Hudson's face. Her expression turned stony, and blank as a clean slate.

 

            'I don't want to talk about this, Detective.'

 

            'I'm sorry. I don't even know the case, really – I've been roped into this in an attempt to show a united front against the Yanks.' He tried a smile, but she didn't return it, instead looking older and more tired than he'd ever seen her. He opened his mouth to speak again, and was immediately cut off.

 

            'Mrs Hudson? What's the matter? Has someone hurt you?' John Watson had appeared from nowhere, small, strong and immediately furious at the thought that someone could have hurt his landlady and friend. Greg smiled up at him, grateful for the interruption.

 

            'I'm fine, dear. What are you doing here?'

 

            'Gladstone and I were taking a walk, and we spotted you. You looked like something was wrong, so we followed you – I hope you don't mind.'

 

            Mrs Hudson frowned up at him, then sighed. 'You should be home, talking to Sherlock.'

 

            'Don't want to,' John said shortly, and Greg snorted. 'What are you laughing at?'

 

            'You, John. How long is it going to take for you to admit you've got a thing for our resident anti-social savant?'

 

            Immediately, John blushed, dark and fast, and Mrs Hudson actually laughed, a surprised sound which made Lestrade inordinately proud of himself. At least she didn't look so sad anymore.

 

            'You can't be serious. When?'

 

            'About a month ago.'

 

            'And you haven't told anyone?'

 

            John sighed and sat down, drawing his chubby bulldog pup into his lap. 'It still feels to good to be true. I'm starting to think it might be.'

 

            Lestrade nodded, suddenly understanding. 'I thought something was different at the river last night, when he had that close call. You seemed more shaken than usual – I thought it was just because he hasn't been back long, after you thought he was dead.'

 

            'I'm in love,' John said bluntly, ducking his head, and Greg grinned at him. 'It hurts like hell and I don't know how I feel about anything, except for that.'

 

            'Yup, that's love for you,' Greg said soothingly. 'As soon as you're ready, do you mind telling everyone down at the station exactly when it started between the two of you? Just, I had money riding on this from the moment we all realised he was alive.'

 

            John's smile was fleeting, and then all of his healer's focus was centered again on Mrs Hudson.

 

            'Why are you here? The cabbie on the way over told me about the DeCavalcante case... are you a witness?'

 

            'In a way.' She placed her now-cold tea on the table. 'I'm here to ensure my nephew goes to jail for the rest of his life. I want him put behind bars, where he can get some help and will never hurt anyone again.'

 

            Greg watched a myriad of expressions play across the doctor's face, until finally it settled on gentle, honest sympathy. 'Your nephew?'

 

            'Jacob. My late husband's nephew; he and I raised the twins together. Well.' She frowned. 'When they were small, I raised them. As they got older, I wasn't allowed into their lives as much. You know how awful my husband was, John. There's a reason I hate to think about him. The little boy I loved is gone – David killed him, and put a murderer in his place.'

 

            She began to cry, and Greg watched at John shifted Gladstone off of his lap, and enveloped Mrs Hudson in his arms. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. I didn't know. How could I not have known?'

 

            'I never wanted to bother you with it,' she said softly. 'It's all so long ago, now. All that's left is to give peace to the families of those poor girls. I need Jacob to be locked away so that I can finally put all of this behind me.'

 

            'You're not alone, you know,' John said, and Greg made a noise of agreement, leaning forward to touch Mrs Hudson's hand. 'We're with you.'

 

            'I'm sorry.' The voice, so melodic and deep, was immediately recognisable. John went stiff as Greg looked up at Sherlock, whose strange, angellic face was more defenseless and lost than he'd ever seen it. 'I forgot all about the trial, Mrs Hudson. I should have been here for you – I was distracted. I should have remembered.'

 

            'You've already done enough, dear,' Mrs Hudson said, smiling weakly up at the consultant detective. 'You helped secure David's execution in America, and you proved it was Jacob behind those murders.'

 

            John finally looked his partner in the eye. 'Why aren't you testifying?'

 

            'I was a drug addict when I proved Jacob Hudson's guilt. Not exactly a sterling witness. John, I-'

 

            'I don't want to hear it. Not now.' Greg glanced at the doctor, surprised – he'd never heard John speak like that, so cold and expressionless. 'This is about Mrs Hudson. We'll stay with you until your part of the trial is over, Mrs Hudson, and then we'll take you home and make you some dinner.'

 

            'I'm testifying, John, I'm not sick,' she chided, gently, but John just smiled at her.

 

            'You take care of us. Let us do the same for once.'

 

            The four of them sat, and drank tea, and waited.

 

            Meanwhile, Jacob DeCavalcante, handcuffed and staring at the walls of his cell, smiled.

 

            Because in a few short hours, the chips he'd put into play six years ago would finally pay off.

 


	4. A Truce, and a Terrible Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Sherlock is an idiot, and the ambulances are called.

'John. I want to talk to you.' Sherlock had followed John into the bathroom when the smaller man had disappeared from the coffee lounge where they'd been sitting playing cards with Greg. Sherlock always won, and John had been getting angrier and angrier.

 

            He wouldn't meet Sherlock's gaze, wouldn't smile at him. There were no deductions Sherlock could make, nothing he could see in John that had changed. The change was internal, and so imperceptible that he couldn't figure it out.

 

            'John?'

 

            John spun on his heel, and shouted to no one in particular, 'if there's anyone in this bathroom who has suddenly remembered an urgent appointment, may I please invite you to bugger off out of here?'

 

            'There's no one here but us, John. I locked the door.'

 

            'How?' John seemed momentarily surprised, taking away a little of his anger.

 

            'Stole the cleaner's keys. John, I want to talk.'

 

            'Yeah? Well, I don't. I don't want to talk.' John's chin rose, and Sherlock's belly filled suddenly with hot, potent admiration for this man, so strong and so brave. 'This isn't about talking. I don't want to talk. Children grow up and into people you don't recognise, and people break your heart. We grow old, and everything we cared about is gone, and I _don't want to talk_.'

 

            Sherlock stood still, unable to understand what was happening, unable to process it on any level other than the desperate need to stop his John from hurting this way. To heal him, the way John healed him.

 

            'Then don't talk,' he said, so softly that John stilled in his furious pacing of the room, although he didn't release his tensely held fists. He took a step forward, for the first time since that bliss-bright, music and chocolate moment a month ago when John had kissed him unsure if he was wanted.

 

            That was one of the best things about John. Sherlock had spent his life feeling unwanted, unneeded. Freak, sociopath, somehow simultaneously lesser and so much more than everyone around him. But John never treated him that way. He treated him as his equal, as a creature desirable and to be protected, loved.

 

            'Please, John. Let me...' he shut his eyes tight. 'Let me make it better.'

 

            And in two strides the captain was across the room, forcing Sherlock back against the sink, kissing him like a lifeline, like he could never let him go, and Sherlock couldn't help but groan, and pull him closer.

 

            He wanted John inside his skin, wanted time to stop and for the dark moments in the night when he was allowed to explore this man to last eternity. He'd spent a life seeking the possible, determining reality, quantifying and deducing and always drawing cold reality out from places it had hidden.

 

            Why, then, did he ache for magic and almost believe he could taste it when John Watson was in his arms, wanting him?

 

            Once you have eliminated all the likely solutions to the problem, whatever is left, however unlikely, is true.

 

            And so Sherlock kissed him back, cradling his skull in both of his hands, stroking long fingers over the ridges and rises and trying to learn him. Secure in the certain deduction that the reason he wanted so much from this man was unlikely, but flawless, bright and possibly his greatest achievement.

 

            He was in love, and he knew that he was so very close to fucking everything up. He was walking a knife edge, and everything was riding on this.

 

            With a growl, John kissed the point of Sherlock's jaw, then took his earlobe between his teeth, swirling his tongue around it and breathing deeply, so achingly hot that Sherlock thought his legs might give out. Strong, deft hands were marking the lines of his ribs through his silk shirt, tracing the tiny places where skin was bared by the too-small size, between the buttons. One of John's legs had worked its way between Sherlock's, and it felt so good to move against him, to seek friction, heat, anything at all.

 

            'You are mine,' John breathed, so low and deep that Sherlock was almost certain it hadn't meant to be heard, but that didn't stop it from forcing blood to his half-hard cock, making his chest rise with a caught breath as he moaned.

 

            'Yes, John. Always. Always.'

 

            John pulled back, one hand rising to grasp Sherlock's long neck possessively, pressed so tight it was almost bruising. Sherlock tried to move against it, make him hold tighter; he hadn't been able to tell John yet how much he needed that, to be possessed and hurt a little, to relinquish the chokehold he had on his life and his mind.

 

            John's soft blue eyes were like storms brewed in teacups. Words to describe them, unpoetic and raw, rose from the depths of his mind palace – _TurnerDuckpondBonechinaHomeHomeHome –_ and he groaned with want, with the weight of disordered thought hurting his heart.

 

            'Need you, Jawn,' he said softly, his voice childish and needy. 'Please.'

 

            John's smile was quick and small. 'I think I like it when you beg.'

 

            Always a quick learner, Sherlock pressed up and into the hand at his throat, pressing his forehead to John's collar, pressing small kisses to the warm skin there.

 

            'Please, please, use me. Let me make it better.' He rubbed his face against that place where John's pulse beat – _FastArousedErraticWarmLove_ – and hoped against hoped that this man, that this undeserved gift, would stay with him.

 

            John pulled him back by his hair, hand still at his throat, and kissed him again. Despite Sherlock's height, it was still a possessive gesture, claiming, and then that hand at his throat dipped lower and pressed down over his beating heart, then lower still, roughly cupping him and driving him wild with the sudden friction.

 

            Only John could do this, sending his mind to a brighter place, white and blank and it felt impossibly good, as necessary as air. Against his lips, John whispered his command.

 

            'Take off my shirt.' Sherlock's fingers fumbled on the buttons, but when they were open and his palms were pressed to the beautiful ridges at John's hips, he was rewarded with a kiss, John stealing his tongue and sucking on it, gentle and slow. 'My belt, love, and your shirt.'

 

            His shirt was gone in a second – one of the benefits of always buying them a little too small for reasons even Sherlock didn't really understand, except that he was always in too much of a hurry to actually try them on. John's belt was slower, as John's genius mouth traced the smooth, strong line of Sherlock's jugular vein as the taller man looked down.

 

            By the time it was undone, his hands were shaking, and John took both of them in his, threading their fingers together.

 

            'You are so beautiful.' John said it often, and always with that same note of wonder – Sherlock had heard the words before, but never like John spoke them. Never as if he meant them to go deeper than skin, and sinew, and blood all the way down to the core of him. 'To your knees, Sherlock.'

 

            Sherlock blinked down at him, swaying slightly, so hypnotised by the fact that John wasn't going to abandon him, that John still thought he was beautiful that he had almost forgotten the very immediate and disproportionately large concern tenting the front of John's cords.

 

            John's smile was wicked, and he took Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, nipping it and then soothing it, the way he always did. In control, but never cruel. Just enough hurt to make the pleasure so extreme it was almost overwhelming.

 

            'That was an order, love,' John snapped, and immediately, Sherlock dropped to his knees, pressing his cheek to his lover's belly and breathing in the heady scent of him as John threaded fingers through dark curls. When he spoke again, his voice was a little shaky, just gruff enough so that Sherlock could deduce what the sight of him on his knees was doing to the good doctor. 'God, Sherlock, I love you.'

 

            And wasn't that extraordinary? That no matter how angry John got, he never could seem to deceive about that one, little thing. He couldn't seem to hold the words back; they forced themselves out, whether he wanted to speak them or not. As a reward, Sherlock dipped his fingers into the back of John's waistband, dragging his nails over his love's backside and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his navel, sucking and letting his teeth linger just enough to mark what was his.

 

            'You drive me insane,' John whispered, and Sherlock nodded, agreeing wordlessly, unable to relinquish the prize under his lips. 'I can't live with out you. Do you understand that, Sherlock? Do you remember how I said sex was necessary, a part of life?' He moaned, low, as Sherlock worked the cords and his boxers down his legs, releasing his straining erection. 'You're necessary. God, you're like air. Don't leave me. Please, love, don't leave me.'

 

            Sherlock took his love in hand, and licked a smooth, slow path up the shaft, revelling in the power of John's cry, of how muscles contracted and hands in his hair pulled tighter, pulled him deeper.

 

            'Never.' He looked up, dug his nails into the flesh of John's thigh to force him to look down, to meet his gaze. 'Do you hear me? Never again.' He growled, low in his throat, and ran his tongue around the head, tasting the now-familiar taste of John – _HomeLoveDarknightsBedShowerSofaKitchenScreamingComingBreathTongueStaywithme –_ savouring it. 'As I am yours, so you are mine. John?'

 

            John heard the question in his voice, and one of those hands stopped pulling and instead stroked the side of Sherlock's jaw, a promise wordlessly voiced.

 

            'Yes. God, yes. Sherlock, I-'

 

            Without anymore encouragement, Sherlock swallowed him down, making the doctor cry out, deep and raw. He thrust into Sherlock's mouth – he knew that John was too far gone to be gentle or slow, and he loved that. Loved knowing that he'd done that, that he'd turned his sweet, gentle healer into something baser, something purer. His throat relaxed, his body automatically taking what he was being given, and his fingers dug deep into the soft, strong flesh of John's arse.

 

            He was alight, and all it took was John's breathless, ' _god, Sherlock, I love you,'_ and he was coming, untouched, as John hollered and tried to pull away, held back by Sherlock's strong grip on him. He wanted more of that taste, wanted to take John into him, and when John was finally still and soft, he at long last let him pull away, and drop to his knees.

 

            The blurred moments after they'd had sex were always vague, argument-free. John fell into Sherlock's arms, who settled back against the bathroom wall, drawing his love into his lap, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

 

            'Did you just come in your trousers?' John asked suddenly, and then they were both laughing, hysterical and wrapped up in each other.

 

            'I'm not good with knowing when something's wrong,' Sherlock managed, when he had his breath down and John was still chuckling against his bare chest. 'You have to tell me, John.'

 

            John breathed a heavy sigh, and kissed the seam of Sherlock's breastbone. 'You have to stop risking yourself like that. It's not just yourself you're risking anymore. You're risking my heart, Sherlock. That's how it works – I gave it to you, and you have to keep it safe.'

 

            Sherlock nodded, processing this new information. 'That's good.'

 

            'How so?' John looked up at him curiously, and not for the first time, Sherlock blessed his lucky stars at John's inability to stay angry for long.

 

            'You're the most trustworthy person I know. So it was a good decision to trust you with my heart,' he explained reasonably, and was a little startled when he was immediately and forcefully kissed.

 

            'You're an idiot,' John said against his lips, now straddling his lap, completely naked. This, Sherlock found, was a situation which pleased him immensely, as it gave him access to his flatmate's sensitive, ticklish neck with his mouth. 'I don't know why I'm the only one who sees that in you.'

 

            There was a sudden banging at the bathroom door, and the urgent, familiar voice of Greg Lestrade shouted,

 

            'Sherlock? John? You need to get out here. Hurry – Mrs Hudson's been injured, and the defendant... you need to see this. Are you in there?'

 

            The two men stared at the door for a second, and then the bliss was broken, and the moment gone.

 

            Neither of them realised how bad things were about to get.

 


	5. Violent Deeds, and a Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn about Giacomo and Luca.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of sexual assault, murder and possible child and spouse abuse. Also swearing, but I'm almost certain my John has done that already and I forgot to add a warning... please do let me know if you'd like me to add any trigger warnings, I want you all safe and happy, and I would hate to accidentally hurt anyone.

John shoved his way through the crowd, helped by Sherlock and Lestrade, yelling, 'I'm a doctor, let me through!'

 

            In the army, he'd worked on adrenaline. He'd look at the situation, take a deep breath, and then try to save a life. A long moment of stillness, and then everything would be chaos, but in that crucial moment, he'd take it all in and understand exactly what had happened.

 

            It wasn't like Sherlock's deduction – it wasn't a gift, it was just the ability to do what needed to be done, at any cost.

 

            The moment he saw Mrs Hudson wouldn't end. There was the stillness, the way nothing seemed to be moving, but it didn't end.

 

            He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. In the year that he'd thought Sherlock was dead, it had been this woman who had kept him alive and breathing. Harri hadn't been able to cope with her little brother's sorrow, hadn't known what to do, and she'd predictably abandoned him, and he'd been relieved. It had been Mrs Hudson who had sat with him on nights when he'd been on the knife's edge, had given him tea and company; she'd taken her ironing up to his flat, cooked for him, all quietly and without demands. She'd offered him sympathy in a way he could barely express, could never thank her for. She was so strong – so much stronger than he was. Her battle scars went deeper than his, and she never whimpered, never lay on the floor wrapped in a dead love's coat and wondered if anyone would really miss him if he climbed onto the roof of St Bart's and followed Sherlock down.

 

            Sudden fear gripped him, and he looked to his right, saw Sherlock standing there, real and alive and pale as the grave, staring at the limp form of their landlady in the centre of the courtroom.

 

            'Help her,' Sherlock whispered. 'God, John, don't let her leave.'

 

            And that was all it took to break the moment, and John was immediately by her side, applying pressure to the stab wound between her ribs and barking instructions, even as he managed to murmur things to her.

 

            'You're not going anywhere, Martha, do you hear me? Too many important things to do. You know we're lost without you – and besides, it's just a little scratch. You're making a fuss over nothing.'

 

            Sherlock dropped down beside them, a little too far away, and John recognised the fear in those pale eyes; he couldn't process what was happening, and he couldn't be too close to the evidence of Mrs Hudson's mortality. The man who lived and breathed death and murder couldn't bear the sight of this woman's pain.

 

            'Sherlock – who did this?'

 

            Immediately, the dark head shot up, and he growled, 'the defendant. How could you have let this happen?' This last was addressed to a CIA officer standing by. 'How could he have hidden a weapon, and escaped? You knew he'd want to hurt her, why wasn't there someone protecting her?'

 

            'There was,' the American said, head bowed. 'The agent... left with Mr DeCavalante.'

 

            'Are you saying you've been bloody _infiltrated_?' Sherlock seethed, a voice so low and dangerous it sounded like a promise of dark, bloody murder.

 

            Mrs Hudson spoke, so quietly that it wouldn't have been heard if Sherlock's statement hadn't silenced the room. 'Lucas. It was Lucas. He... screamed when Jacob stabbed me. I'd know his voice anywhere.'

 

            'Hush, Martha,' John couldn't remember ever having called her by her first name before, but it seemed ridiculous to refer to her as Mrs Hudson when she was so frail and fragile in his arms. 'Don't worry yourself. Where in hell are the paramedics?'

 

            Sherlock stood, and swore. 'John, the trail's going cold. I've got to go.'

 

            John looked up at him, and realised that he might be the only one in the world, at that moment, who could see how terrified Sherlock was. His face was stony, his eyes glinting, dark and furious, his fists clenched so tightly that he looked on the verge of drawing blood.

 

            The paramedics pushed through, and there was only a moment's breath, one second where they were able to see each other, and he reached up and touched Sherlock's fist, leaving the faintest trace of blood there.

 

            'I'm coming with you,' he said, and met his eyes as the paramedics tried to take Mrs Hudson out of his arms. 'I want the man who did this to _suffer._ '

 

            They took her away, and Sherlock took his arm, almost forcing him to his feet, then swore colourfully and spun, dragging John with him. 'Where's Gladstone?'

 

            'Here,' a soft woman's voice said, and immediately, Sherlock's arm wrapped around John's waist in an obvious expression of possession.

 

            It should have pissed John off that Sherlock felt the need to be so rude, when he and Detective Mary Morastan had only dated once, but instead, it made the sick feeling in his gut abate just a little.

 

            Mary was tall and willowy, very pale skinned with pale eyes and dark hair – let it be said that John H Watson isn't particularly subtle, and when he'd dated Mary, during the year in which he'd thought Sherlock dead, she'd been the closest thing he could find to Sherlock. She was ridiculously clever, but she'd been too kind, to easy to get along with, and he'd been able to read her like a book, see the sympathy so clearly on her face. In the end, she wasn't right simply because she wasn't Sherlock.

 

            Sherlock hated her on principle, but John and she had become fast friends, especially since he'd adopted Gladstone. Mary didn't get along with people particularly well, preferring dogs, and had a position as head of Scotland Yard's famous dog unit. Sure enough, she had a strangely quiet Gladstone in her arms and her working dog – a black, sleek labrador he thought he remembered being called Erstaz – lying by her feet.

 

            'Go,' she said, her eyes burning bright with fury. 'But don't let him do anything stupid.'

 

            'I won't,' John said, but she shook her head.

 

            'I wasn't talking to you. Sherlock, please. Keep your head, and don't let him lose his.'

 

            Something released in Sherlock and he stared Mary down, then finally nodded, the two of them communicating on a level that left John confused and a little dizzy with jealousy.

 

            Particularly because she was right. After knowing Sherlock for less than 48 hours, John had killed a man to protect him. If he ever found the man who'd hurt Mrs Hudson – first broken her heart, then tried to kill her – he was going to do terrible, dark things.

 

            And so Sherlock, a self-professed sociopath, was given the task of keeping his friend from committing bloody murder.

 

            They pushed their way through the chaos of the building, and in the street Sherlock hailed a cab, and they climbed in, as Sherlock barked an address that John didn't think to question.

 

            'This is my fault,' he said, suddenly, quietly. 'If she dies...it will be all my fault.'

 

            John took his hand without thinking, and knew that no matter what this man did, no matter what he thought himself responsible for, John would never be able to leave him. Sympathy and sadness for Mrs Hudson – for the woman she'd been when Jacob and Lucas Hudson had known her – rised like bile in his throat, and he turned his body towards Sherlock, seeking comfort.

 

            He understood better than most how love could cripple you. Then Sherlock looked down, and seemed so lost, and he reached up and pressed a kiss to the taller man's dry, warm lips.

 

            Instead of how it had seemed this morning, when he'd convinced himself that everything was broken, he was now certain of one simple thing: he was in possession of this strange, imperfect man's heart. And he would never let his love for Sherlock make him weak; he would use it to stay strong.

 

            'Tell me,' he commanded, and watched Sherlock swallow, and curl close, partly to avoid being overheard and mostly for the comfort of John's warmth. He threaded a hand into curling black  hair. 'Sherlock. Who are they?'

 

            'The Hudson Gems,' Sherlock whispered, the words ghosting over that flawless, infuriating mouth.

 

            'My greatest failure.'

 

                                                                                    *

 

            Their father was a sick fucker. Five DeCavalante brothers had been born, their bloodright the dubious honour of eventually becoming the rulers of a crime empire on the banks of the Hudson river. The oldest three – Giovanni, Matteo and Edoardo – were diplomats, rulers, throwbacks to the glory days of the crime families when manners were paramount and honour was key. The younger two, Salvatore and Pietro, were the ones who got their hands dirty.

 

            Their father raised them to appreciate fear, and discipline, and to know when to slice a jugular and when to shake a hand. So it was when a girlfriend of Pietro's got knocked up when he was barely out of high school – she was wed and bed within days of making the mistake of telling him, and when her twin sons were born, she was sent away to an empty house in the country.

 

            Pietro – Pete – was wrong, all the way through. His brothers – all but Sal – could see it, and tried to curb it. Tried to stop him when his love of slaughter moved passed professionalism and into his private life. Tried to take his sons away from him, to be raised in the way of the Family and not ignored until it was time for another drunken beating.

 

            When it became obvious that Pete was raping and murdering his way out of their own territory – where such things could be kept quiet – and into New York proper, the older three brothers brought in a professional from outside the Family, and Pete found himself at the bottom of the Hudson river with his feet chained to a concrete block.

 

            Sal, always blind, always stupid and in mourning for his brother, grabbed his five-year-old nephews and did the only thing he could do to punish his older brothers.

 

            He caught a bus and walked right in, carting a pair of unwashed and bruise-marked boys, to CIA Langley.

 

            He wanted a new life, but wouldn't accept one in America, or Canada. He wanted 'somewhere with a sea between us and them. Somewhere where they speak American, and the goddamned Family can't find us.'

 

             In a move idiotic and almost certainly illegal, a deal was struck with MI5, and Salvatore DeCavalante became David Hudson. Giacomo and Luca became Jacob and Lucas.

 

            They were quiet boys. They'd learnt young not to ask questions, not to speak up. They'd been beaten, and the beatings continued at the hands of their uncle. They were cruel, too, in the way of small children who know that they don't fit in. They hated men, and boys who were weaker than they, but they let their teacher touch them when no one else was allowed. She had a soft voice, and hands which smelled of the buttery lavender lotion she kept on her desk, for hands always dry from holding paintings and sorting through math worksheets.

 

            Jacob never spoke much to Martha, though he let himself be gentled by her, let himself be held. He never cried, for he'd long ago realised how pointless that was. He wouldn't let a woman change him, because they were weak and stupid. But he let her stroke his hair, sometimes, and pretended to himself that she was his mother.

 

            Lucas was different. At any chance, he'd talk a thousand miles a minute, astounded that anyone wanted to listen. He would talk til he was blue in the face, and he constantly sought ways to make Martha laugh or to make her smile. He was scared of everything except for her. Scared of the dark, scared of his uncle, scared even of Jacob, who was the other half of him.The only one he wasn't scared of was Martha, and he loved her more than anything, so much that it hurt, so much that he kept himself awake at night wishing that she'd take him away, wishing that she'd tell him she was his real mother – not some scared little girl who had given him up without a fight. He devoured the books she gave him, his favourite being riddles and stories with grand mysteries to them. He found some courage in the idea that people could be fooled.

 

            Martha had grown up in a happy family, and knew what that meant. David, the boys' uncle and guardian, was charming, and handsome.

 

            She already loved his boys. She assumed that she would love him just as much in time.

 

            The wedding was quick, a registry office event, because David didn't want his handlers realising until it was too late. He wanted her, wanted someone to take the burden of care off of him, and he was wealthy enough from his various illicit projects to keep her.

 

            The intermediate years had been deleted from Sherlock's hard-drive, save for a few simple statements. _Verbal and physical abuse. Training, physical, firearms, bookkeeping. Out of school age 16. Journey to Florida – arrested for a series of murders, including those of Gio and Matteo DeCavalante._

 

They'd been quite elderly, retired and old grudges long forgotten, when David had tracked down his living brothers and killed them in cold blood. Two counts of first degree murder. Jacob had moved out of the building David owned – 221B – and had started to run his uncle's crime empire.

 

            He was like his father. Sherlock didn't particularly care why Jacob had started killing for pleasure – he'd only cared about the flawless way in which he did it. No prints, no one anyone would ever file a missing persons report for. Never the same murder technique twice.

 

            He'd begun investigating the murders committed by Jacob while he'd been a drug addict and a pain in Scotland Yard's backside. He'd shown up at crime scenes, hacked computers, and had come to the conclusion no one who had ever dealt with one of the hundreds of crimes committed by the Hudson men had come to.

 

            They were Mafia. Even a generation removed from the US, Jacob Hudson moved with a grace and professionalism that was Mafia.

 

            It was Sherlock who put Jacob behind bars, and when Lucas disappeared, he was offered the twins' old flat by Mrs Hudson. He'd been cut off by his family and his need for drugs was stronger than his need for somewhere to sleep. In payment, he'd found a way to prove David Hudson's guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt, and knowing that her torturer was dead had seemed to calm Mrs Hudson. He'd taken strange comfort from that, and she became the first person in the longest time that Sherlock Holmes ever sought to please.

 

            He'd let himself forget about Jacob, and Lucas – if he'd ever even been considered – had been completely deleted from Sherlock's hard-drive. Lucas was gone, never communicated with anyone; he was assumed to have changed his identity for a third time and disappeared.

 

            And so, when Lucas returned and it became apparent that Sherlock had so desperately underestimated the men Mrs Hudson had raised, it was his fault.

 

            He held John's hand, and tried to remember facts long since disregarded as irrelevant. They'd waited just long enough that Sherlock wouldn't recall their way of thinking, wouldn't be able to predict them.

 

            The Hudson Gems were free, and they had a grudge. He looked down at John, who was still, stallwart, and so beloved it made Sherlock feel high and grounded all at once.

 

            His heart was vulnerable outside his chest. Moriarty had seen it, and Jacob Hudson would too.

 

            He hoped against hope that although he'd betrayed Mrs Hudson already, he'd be able to protect John.

 

            Nothing had ever mattered so much.

 


	6. Two Pairs of Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Mycroft is very displeased, and so is John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mention of torture.

Jacob Hudson thrashed against his bonds, curses stillborn behind his teeth, unable to force their way past the plumber's tape sealing his lips. For some reason known only to his brother – perhaps to show off, perhaps to subtly explain to Jacob that he would never be free – Lucas had left his eyes unbound, and he could see exactly where he was.

            The room was lavish, beautiful, and tastefully decorated in a way only the oldest of British families could achieve. All around him was dark, warm wood, and he was facing a long table, bracketted by suits of armour, facing a window.

            A lot could be deduced from that window, if Jacob had ever been the sort to deduce anything. If he had been calm, and looking for information, he might have seen how one seat at the far end of the table showed signs of being used far more than the others. This was someone's place to sit, and think, or maybe just somewhere quiet to come when the situation warranted it. He might have noticed that the room was sparsely furnished, despite the fact that it was clearly in a grand manour house – a sure sign that he was being held in some smaller parlour, far away from the beating heart at the centre of the building.

            He might have looked out the window, and seen the green-grey expanse of the distance, and deduced that he was in Surrey, near Windsor and commuting distance from London. There were more than enough signs of that, not least that the spires of a castle were visible over the trees.

            However, Jacob's mind didn't work like that, and he was too busy fuming with unsurpressed rage to realise that he was somewhere very dangerous, indeed.

            Years, spent rotting because of that bastard Holmes. The Americans wanted him sent back to the US, but he had committed no crimes there and they wouldn't be able to detain him for long; he'd waited, none-too-patiently, for the pussy Brits to hand him over, so that he could skip right back across the pond a free man and gut that prissy drug-addict detective.

            But the trial had been brought to British court. Somewhere, high up in the government, there was an avenging angel who wanted Jacob Hudson to rot in an English jail for the rest of his miserable life.

            And Jacob had lost what was left of his ever-delicate sanity when he'd seen his Auntie Martha. God, she'd looked old. Old and feeble and pathetic, and he could barely believe she was the only woman he'd ever let himself care for – she was disgusting. She was just like all the others, like his mother; cowardly lesser beings full of holes and high-pitched screams.

            He had to admit, he did enjoy the screams. Which was why he'd used the piece of metal he'd sold his soul for in prison not on a CIA agent as he'd intended – a better way to get sent back to the land of cheeseburgers and Jesus-induced hard-ons, he couldn't imagine – but on her.

            The little old lady whose soft East End voice had lulled him to sleep when he'd woken with night terrors. The woman whose heart he'd broken, over and over again, first by never protecting her from his uncle's attacks – why would he? Lucas tried, often, and got broken bones for his efforts – and then when she'd realised what he'd become.

            Those were the words she'd used, the night he'd left 221b for the last time. 'I can't accept what you've become.'

            He hoped to hell that the bitch was dead.

            Lucas had brought him to this place. He contemplated that, but it didn't fit in with the character portrait of the other Gem he had in his twisted mind. Lucas had always been his minion, the other half of him, silently obeying orders and mimicking Jacob to the point where only Martha could tell them apart.

            He didn't recognise the man who had knocked him out and dragged him here. Lucas hadn't said a word, but he'd let Jacob look him over, and the message had been clear. _This is what you could have been. Look at me, and see how far you've fallen._

            They'd always been identical, but nature fought with nurture, and in the past years nuture had definitely favoured Lucas. He was ripped, the kind of muscle only intensive military training gave you, and when he'd removed his stupid CIA disguise he'd shown his dark hair growing elegantly out of a long-ago buzz-cut, smile lines etched onto a strong, rectangular face. His dark eyes were brighter, somehow, than Jacob remembered.

            There was a scar on his face, and he walked with the slightest limp – although Jacob had never been much for deduction, it wasn't hard to recognise what Lucas had become.

            He was military. And Jacob had found himself remembering, suddenly queasy, all of the times that Lucas had accidentally shown his hand, had proven that he was just as strong, and maybe even smarter, than his twin.

            Sitting on the floor of the grand manour house, Jacob realised that it was possible he'd spent his life underestimating Lucas.

            A door opened, and Jacob started thrashing again, but this didn't seem to affect the steady, meandering gait of the gentleman who had entered. Soon his vision of the table and window was blocked by a pair of legs clad in an immacculate Ozwald Boateng pin-striped suit. An umbrella came to rest, making barely a sound, next to the black shoes, polished and gleaming.

            Jacob looked up at the man regarding him with something between disgust and interest. He was struck by a sudden, bizarre image of himself as an insect which had been collected and pinned to a board, doomed and powerless, yet still thrashing.

            ' _Ciao_ , Giacomo,' the gentleman said, his Italian accent flawless. ' _Sei un irritazione._ '

            He glared at the man, uncomprehending – his bastard father had been too drunk and too busy slitting throats to teach him the language of the homeland.

            'I said,' the gentleman repeated, his tone crisp, pleasant, and the most threatening thing Jacob had ever heard, 'you are an irritation. Do you understand? You see, I have many enemies. Many people who I regard as dangerous, or even as worthy adversaries. I just wanted you to understand that I do not count you amoung that number. You are nothing more than a sick, twisted little man who enjoys the suffering of women, because it makes him feel strong.'

            He stepped away, and pulled out one of the chairs from the table, settling in it with his legs neatly crossed and his umbrella across his lap.

            'I understand that you hold something of a grudge against Sherlock Holmes?' Jacob thrashed and screamed mutely at the name, and the gentleman raised a single eyebrow. 'Yes, quite. You see, Jacob, far greater men than you have decided to kill Sherlock. They will try again, doubtlessly. The greatest of them is now dead and buried, but he came closer than any other will ever get. Do you know why that was, Jacob?'

            The gentleman leant forward, and Jacob found himself barely supressing a shiver of fear, instinctually recognising how dangerous this man was. He steepled his fingertips and rested his chin against them, and then smiled.

            'He avoided the two mistakes you made. Firstly, he never let emotion get the better of him, and he never committed thoughtless crimes of passion. Secondly – and this is important, you annoying little fleck of pondscum – he never underestimated me.

            'Today, Jacob Hudson, you came very close to breaking my baby brother's heart.

            'And I am going to punish you for it.'

*

            They'd arrived at the abandoned warehouse which Sherlock swore had been Jacob Hudson's secret base of operations a half hour ago, and Sherlock was still running around like a dervish, getting ever more furious.

 

            'This doesn't make any sense. It says that he was here, but not for at least two weeks. Look at the dust, John! Things have been moved, as if someone knew exactly what they were looking for, and I'd swear it was him, but it's not possible. He was in jail!' He threaded his hands through his dark hair, and made a small noise of annoyance. 'How can someone possibly be two places at once?'

 

            John watched as that miraculous brain worked, and against all the odds – the ridiculous venue, the horror of the day, the fact that they were trying to track down a man who had put Mrs Hudson into what Lestrade's most recent text termed _a critical but stable condition_ – he felt himself grow hard when that cupid's-bow mouth formed the word which had been known to change everything.

 

            ' _Oh,_ ' Sherlock breathed, and John had to fight the impulse to bend the taller man over and force him to make that sound again, for a different reason. 'Lucas.'

 

            'The other twin?'

 

            'I never considered him,' Sherlock said, wonderingly. 'How could I never have considered him? I just assumed he was another part of his brother. Don't you see, John? I looked at them as if they were a whole. The Hudson Gems. Two parts of the same beast. But I never thought about Mrs Hudson.'

 

            'What about her?' John asked, stepping closer to his love, one hand still tight on his gun – he didn't like how open the space was or how indefensible it was.

 

            'I don't know anything at all about children. The only one I've ever spent any time with is Mallory, and she's special; I never think of her as a child. But even without any knowledge on childhood development or that most ridiculous science – _psychology_ – I should have realised that something didn't add up. We know Mrs Hudson. She might be the strongest, best person I've ever met. So what doesn't add up here?'

 

            'The twins,' John said, suddenly understanding. 'You assumed they were identical in every way, even character. But they were both raised by Mrs Hudson, and even with their uncle's influence... it doesn't make any sense that a woman like her could have raised two murderers.'

 

            'Jacob was a fluke,' Sherlock said, waving a hand. 'Maybe he witnessed a murder of his father's. Maybe he responded differently to the abuse, and so was more susceptible to David Hudson's influence. But we can't assume that Lucas responded the same way.'

 

            'He helped Jacob escape, though.'

 

            Sherlock straightened, and looked around, searching for something. 'I don't think he did. I think he took him somewhere else. He's been planning this – he was here, using his knowledge of his brother to find something hidden here. That's why I can't tell the difference; they have the same weight, the same way of moving, the same height and shoe size.'

 

            'So... what is Lucas doing? I don't understand why he took his brother away from that trial – they were going to convict him, and lock him away for the rest of his life.'

 

            'He was ready to stab someone... you forget, the Americans want him back on US soil; they see him as their responsibility, an embarassement they'd rather deal with themselves. But he hasn't committed any crimes over there – being sent to America would be exactly the outcome he'd be hoping for. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd been ready to attack one of the American guards.'

 

            'I wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction,' a new voice said, as a tall figure emerged from the gloom of the back of the warehouse.

 

            John drew his gun, and the figure stopped, holding up his hands.

 

            'Cool it, little guy, I'm on your side.'

 

            John shot the man's Royal Marines-issue beret off of his head, the rest of his body completely still. 'Captain Little Guy, if you don't mind.'

 

            Lucas Hudson stepped out of the darkness and saluted, a merry smile playing at the corners of his broad mouth. 'Captain.'

 

            Next to him, John felt Sherlock take in all of the information possible to be deduced from Lucas' appearance, and sure enough, when he spoke again, he said simply: 'I assume you brough a car to take us back to Mycroft's house?'

 

            'Of course, Mr Holmes.' His voice bore no trace of the Yankee accent he'd changed his name to escape, and he spoke like what John recognised him to be – an elite soldier. 'Your brother has arranged for all of this to stay within the family, if you understand my meaning.'

 

            Sherlock's smile was quick and distinctly evil. 'Your aunt is going to be alright, Lucas. She'll be beridden for a while, but she'll live.'

 

            The solider seemed to sag a little with relief. 'Thank God. I'm trusting you both to take care of her, I hope you know.'

 

            John finally lowered his gun, slipping it inside his coat, and bestowed the favour of one of his smiles.

 

            'Take us to Her Majesty, then, Lucas,' he said, and Lucas looked distinctly confused when both detective and doctor suddenly burst out in hysterical laughter.

 


	7. SH è morto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the tale of the Gems is concluded, and Sherlock dreams of bees.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with distaste when Mycroft's obnoxious assistant opened the manor door, and not the ancient butler whom Sherlock actually liked, because he'd long ago taught Sherlock to play chess on a rainy day when he'd been threatening to tear the house apart from the inside.

 

            The woman gave the two men at the door a quick look, then quickly returned to jabbing away furiously at her Gucci-dressed iPad. Sherlock pushed past her as if he owned the place – rather than just being the little brother of the man who owned the place – and tried to fight the instinct to turn around and jealously savage her when John pleasantly said,

 

            'afternoon, Anthea.'

 

            Honestly, how did his partner have the mental faculties to recall so many names? He was no where near as intelligent as Sherlock, who'd only just started remembering that Lestrade's first name was Greg – and that was only because if he wanted John's company on a Friday night, he had to accompany the two of them to the pub and play nice with the detective.

 

            On those occasions, he wasn't even allowed to attempt to distract John by groping him – or, it had transpired, himself – under the table. The most he was apparently allowed to engage in was a slow, deliberate tasting of his bottled drink, letting the tip of his tongue ghost over the moisture on the outside of the neck, before closing his lips over the bottletop.

 

            This had the added benefit, the last time he'd tried it, of turning Lestrade a fascinating shade of magenta. He'd filed away the information, and was determined to conduct a full and proper study into how embarassed he could make Greg before his friendship with John would be overridden by his desire to get as far away from Sherlock as possible.

 

            So far, Greg could take rather a lot of embarassing. This was impressive, and from Sherlock's database, made him conclude that the man was probably at least half Scottish. Pure-blooded Englishmen could only tollerate watching another man's boyfriend giving fellatio to an inanimate object for so long.

 

            The fact that John had been born in Edinburgh to Scottish parents who had moved south when he was a child was the basis for this assumption. It took an awful lot to embarass John Hamish Watson, but very little to turn the man a beautiful, lickable shade of scarlet. He was most certainly a pure-blooded little Celtic warrior-man.

 

            He'd gotten distracted and had somehow wandered into the front parlour instead of the back dining room that he had deduced Mycroft would be using as a makeshift jailcell – Mycroft always did his best thinking surrounded by a surfeit of mahogany, for reasons he'd never understood.

 

            'Sherlock, where has your head gone?' John asked softly, behind him. He stepped forward, invading his body space in a way only John was permitted to, and touched a hand to the skin at the base of Sherlock's neck, knowing without being told how skin-to-skin contact could ground the genius.

 

            He turned his head, and in the passing of a moment, he considered how close he'd come to losing Mrs Hudson today. How death had always seemed so divorced from his life, something to study and not something to experience.

 

            He recalled the blinding, heart-stopping moments of horror when he'd thought John was going to die. A moment when he'd been in a swimming pool, and realising that with this damaged, strange man, he'd made his heart vulnerable. A moment in Irene's flat, when the butt of a gun had been pressed to John's head, and everything had relied on Sherlock to save him. And then, standing on the roof of St Barts, no way of knowing if his bet would pay out.

 

            He turned round and captured John's head in the crook of one arm, pressed their lips together, his tongue seeking the comfort and head of John's. He imagined what John was thinking, and thought maybe he should try doing that more often – _NotReallyTheTimeLove_ and _ohhh, FuckIt._

 

            John kissed him back, pushing back, that ferocity and need to control that drove Sherlock mad and made him want to fight back and give in all at once.

 

            'What was that for?' John whispered, touching the tips of his fingers to his lips and pupils blown with desire.

 

            'You. Can't lose you.' His mind had already turned back to Mycroft and the Hudsons, so he spoke to John in divorced fragments of thoughts which had passed through his head five seconds and a lifetime ago. 'Only live if you do. Live with you.'

 

            'Always,' John said, then pulled away, smoothly, grabbing his hand and threading their fingers together, pulling them out of the room. 'Come on, take me to Mycroft.'

 

            Sherlock managed to focus, and led them into the gallery at the back, which was pannelled in dark wood and held the long dining table where Mycroft liked to work instead of the study which held strange and half-repressed memories of their brilliant, distant mother.

 

            It was not covered in papers today, though. In the place of the familiar dark dossiers with red writing printed on the front – the sort that got you killed by the SAS if you were idiotic enough to leave them on a train, and the Prime Minister would never know existed – there was a man.

 

            He was instantly recognisable, not from all those years ago when Sherlock had tracked and imprisoned him – that data was long since deleted – but because he was the spitting image of his twin.

 

            Jacob was equally muscular, though a few prison tattoos snaked over his limbs. Automatically, Sherlock took them in, his job made easier by the fact that Jacob Hudson was naked from the waist up.

 

            There was a vine of barbed wire around his left bicep; on his right was a complete sleeve, from his wrist to his shoulder, which showed a graveyard scene.

 

            Over his heart was a scoring system. Three groups of four upright lines, each with another line scoring them diagonally, and three spare to the far right.

 

            Eighteen kills. Some of them, Sherlock had never solved; he didn't know if they were imaginary, or so flawlessly committed that no body was ever found. He'd always suspected that in the case of Jacob Hudson, the police had only begun to find bodies when he'd gotten bored of getting away with them without even the recognition that they'd happened.

 

            And there, beneath the snarling, thrashing man's ear, was a swirling pattern. Sherlock moved closer, ignoring both John's hissing, angry noise of caution and Jacob's furious thrashing. Jacob turned puce as he struggled against the extremely effective bonds holding him down – Sherlock wondered absently if his brother had some sort of BDSM fettish – and veins bugged in his neck.

 

            Sherlock inspected the mark on his neck.

 

            _SH_ _è morto_ it read, and he grinned down at the bound man, who showed the distinct signs of having been recently very expertly tortured.

 

            He didn't need words to express to Jacob how statisfied that made both he and John. He had tried to kill the woman both of them loved deeply, and Sherlock had done a lot worse to people who had threatened Mrs Hudson.

 

            He hoped that Mycroft had hurt this man in ways that didn't show up on his skin.

 

            'Do you know,' he said, touching his fingertips to the feverish skin of the little Italian tattoo, 'I'm quite flattered by this mark. _Sherlock Holmes is dead_. You thought about me endlessly, didn't you? You thought about killing me a million different ways. I became your obsession, the only thing keeping you breathing. I took over your whole world.'

 

            Jacob screamed against the gag in his mouth, his eyes bugging, and John stepped closer, silently menacing, silently protective. Sherlock's heart felt tighter, knowing that he wasn't alone. That he wasn't a sociopath like this man before him – he was instead the sort of man whom John Watson could love, and that said that he was a worthy human.

 

            Donovan always feared he would turn out like men like Jacob. Sherlock smiled, uncaring of how terrifying he must look. He knew now that he could never - _never_ – be like Jacob Hudson.

 

            'Do you want to know something, Jacob?' he said, ever-softly, lowering his mouth to the bound man's marked neck. 'I forgot all about you.'

 

            The noise that Jacob made was completely unearthly, and as he screamed, Sherlock stepped backwards, letting John take his arm and lead him away from the table.

 

            Mycroft entered from a hidden door, making John start, but Sherlock just nodded at him solemnly, taking in how his brother was drying off his hands, his sleeves pulled all the way up his arms as though he'd been doing something very nasty only moments before.

 

            'Hello, dear brother,' Mycroft said cheerily, tossing the towel over his shoulder and beginning to roll down his sleeves, completely ignoring the screaming man tied to his work table. 'And John, how are you, dear man? It's been too long.'

 

            'What, since you last abducted me?' John said, but he was smiling.

 

            'I've been meaning to congratulate the both of you.' For the first time in Sherlock's memory, Mycroft actually looked sincere, and happy. He was facing John with this expression, of course; it was doubtful he'd ben able to keep it up if he was looking at Sherlock. 'I'm so pleased you finally found each other. I think it's been obvious to everyone but you that this is the way it was always meant to be.'

 

            Sherlock looked at John, who was – surprisingly, because it was _Mycroft_ – beaming, and blushing a little.

 

            Sherlock growled softly in the back of his throat and began imagining ways he could persuade the captain to permit him to eat Nutella off of his torso.

 

            'What are you going to do with him?' John asked.

 

            'Hmm? Oh, you mean that?' Mycroft gestured to the table, his eyes completely glassy cold, and Sherlock was briefly proud of his brother. Well, this did seem to be a day for emotional revelation – he would be pleased when it was over and he could get back to his experiments on the tensile strength of animal hides. As though he was reciting a press statement, Mycroft said, 'at approximately midnight tonight, Giacomo DeCavalante, Alias Jacob Hudson, was shot and killed in self-defense by a decorated member of Scotland Yard in a dramatic hostage situation in a warehouse  near Bromley. His body will be donated to a study into criminally psychotic behaviour by Oxford University, as per the wishes of his next-of-kin.'

 

            Maybe until that moment, Jacob hadn't truly understood how deeply he'd been betrayed by his twin brother, but suddenly, the fight left him, and a glance backwards showed that he was still glaring furiously at them but had ceased to struggle.

 

            'She's out of the woods,' John said, then glanced at Sherlock – who was rapidly losing interest – and threaded their fingers together again. 'Are you alright here? I'm going to take Sherlock to the hospital. When she wakes up, I want us to be there.'

 

            Mycroft smiled again – god, was he going to get into the habit of that? It was deeply unsettling – and waved them away. 'Go, go. Probably best you're not here when the rubbish disposal people show up, either way.'

 

            John's eyes widened a little at this, but he didn't say anything until both he and Sherlock were back in Mycroft's provided car and driving back into the centre of London.

 

            'I've been to war. I've seen awful things, proven myself to be very brave.' Sherlock nuzzled his face into the particular bit of jumper covering John's wounded shoulder, to show his agreement. 'Why is it, then, that I find your brother so utterly terrifying?'

 

            Sherlock was sick of discussing Mycroft and pressed a snuffling kiss to John's neck, making the smaller man squirm and swat at him. 'I don't want to fight again. Things seem to get dramatic when we do.'

 

            'Things are always dramatic, and we'll always fight.' John pressed a chaste, warm kiss to his lover's lips. 'But I'll always love you, even when I want to strangle you. Bear that in mind, love.'

 

            Sherlock closed his eyes, and half-pulled an unresisting doctor into his lap, wrapping himself around him the way he'd spent years yearning to and had only recently been permitted to.

 

            He was tired, he realised. Had it only been the night before he'd jumped into the Thames and died, if only for a moment? He'd been on the case for days before that, and he was behind on his sleep, and the stress was slowly seeping from his body the more he was reassured with strong evidence that John's heart was still beating steadily.

 

            Later, John would sleep in the waiting room as Sherlock kept a still, solemn vigil over Mrs Hudson's prone form in the hospital room Mycroft had arranged. He would be there when she woke, and he'd be able to tell her how Lucas Hudson was a good man, and that he'd never doubted for a moment she'd come back. He'd tell her how Jacob was dead, and she would cry, and he'd hold her, awkwardly patting her back. Later, John would sleep.

 

            But for now, it was Sherlock's turn to hold on tightly to his love, and drift into sleep.

 

            He dreams of the countryside, in late summer when fruit trees are swollen and heavy, and the air sits still and wet as he moves slowly through a field. It smells sweet, and he knows that dusk is coming, but the heat is still in the air and it makes his bones a little less stiff.

 

            He dreams of bees. They move through that thick air slowly, as sleepy and pleasantly distracted as he is, their minds somewhere else. They give him honey, sweet and dark and he knows that his love will dip the tip of his tongue into the honeycomb, a gratifying reward. He dreams of a tall woman in a sun-drenched kitchen at the end of the day, accepting his gift of sticky honey with an embrace and a kiss on his cheek – he is one of the few people she doesn't mind touching, and she is one of his.

 

            He dreams that she likes to bake bread, and the kitchen smells of it, almost too hot. Her pale skin is flushed red, and she tinkers with her equipment as he sits at the table and eats some of his spoils of war on warm, fresh bread. And then John. Dream John walks in, all of him blurred, but so utterly and completely John that he can't help but rise, can't help but hold him close, so scared that he'll leave, even after all this time.

 

            The sun sets slowly outside, and the cold sets in, but in the kitchen, they are warm. They are safe, and there is no more death, no more murders. His mind has calmed, at long last, and he is content.

 

            He is peaceful.

 


	8. Seeing Stars (at Long Bloody Last)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock has an appreciation of constellations, Mycroft is putty in small hands and we meet the happy ending.

_Several years later_

 

 

            John started to bake as an outlet for his nervous energy almost precisely eight years ago. Sherlock had taken to skipping meals, just as worried as John was, and the only thing that seemed capable of persuading him to eat anything was if John had made it. They'd both been sick with worry, nerves, and want, and it had been something to do.

 

            In the early days, this had resulted in a broken tooth, a bout of food poisoning and on one memorable occasion a trip to the ER when John became convinced he'd actually managed to get his partner to swallow a pound coin.

 

            In the years since then, John had gotten good at his household arts, and as he kept one wary eye on the clock he expertly kneaded a lump of dough, leaning into it and folding it over with strong hands.

 

            The worry hadn't actually decreased, he thought mildly. He couldn't remember a single moment when he hadn't been half-crazed with worry in the past eight years, but he'd learnt to cope with it by taking out his nerves on unsuspecting culinary utensils.

 

            The hands of the clock shifted – they were now exactly half an hour late, which was never a good sign. John sighed, feeling the sound catch in his throat, and almost jumped out of his skin when long arms circled him and a pointy chin inserted itself on his shoulder.

 

            'Jaaaawn,' Sherlock moaned, his voice wimpery and pathetic. Which, really, should not be so adorable. 'They're late and I'm bored. Entertain me?'

 

            John grinned and pressed a kiss to his childish love's cheek, getting it a little bit floury. 'They'll be back any minute, and then you'll get to make endless fun of Mycroft. Won't that be fun?'

 

            As if summoned, the door to 221b slammed open and a missile flung itself at both men. John instinctively opened his arms and drew it closer, and Sherlock moved to sandwich it between their two bodies.

 

            Wynn beamed at them both as they inspected her for signs of neglect.

 

            'Oh, for god's sake, she's alright,' Mycroft muttered darkly from the doorway, where he was lugging something heavy. 'No “hello Mycroft” or “thank you for taking her, Mycroft”. Not even a “oh dear lord Mycroft you look like you've been to hell and back, can I offer you some tea?”'

 

            'Why would we thank you?' Sherlock asks, inbetween what seems to John like he's searching the pockets of Wynn's little trousers for clues. 'You're the one who insists on stealing her every Sunday.'

 

            He pulls out a small black electronic device from Wynn's jeans, and the two of them – detective and child – exchange an inscrutable look. John tries hard not to panic that Sherlock is training her for a life of crime.

 

            'Oh, well done, little mastermind,' he murmurs, and she beams. With an airy wave, Sherlock tries to carry Wynn away and up the stairs to continue whatever evil schemes they're hatching, but John grabs them both and announces,

 

            'Nope, not until I hear all about your day with Uncle My. You can go upstairs and change, but I want you back down here in five minutes.' When she turns away to follow Sherlock upstairs, he calls out, 'and don't let Papa play with that thing, it belongs to Uncle My.'

 

            Mycroft blinks at this, from where he's collapsed on the sofa. Gladstone, now a regal old lady, has shifted most of her body subtly onto his lap and he's dazedly stroking her ears, even though he's often protested his dislike for her.

 

            'I don't even want to know what that little devil has taken,' Mycroft says wearily, rubbing his eyes. 'She's completely exhausting, John. I don't know how you do it.'

 

            John thinks about pointing out that he lives with Sherlock, who is not entirely unlike an attention-defict genius seven-year-old, but decides against it. 'Practice. She loves her Sundays with you, even the ones where you stand your ground and actually teach her what you plan to.'

 

            A strange blush rises to Mycroft's cheeks. 'Yes, well. It's those eyes of hers. It's hard to deny her anything.'

 

            John points out that he spends a great deal of his life saying no to those eyes – after all, Wynn and Sherlock share exactly the same changeable blue-grey eyes. 'And yet I somehow manage to avoid the urge to shut down Hamleys Toy Store and let her run riot for five hours.'

 

            'We did eventually find her,' Mycroft says defensively.

 

            'And you brought her home with a dozen replica wands from the Harry Potter films, a stuffed giraffe that has been mathematicaly proven to be taller than me and a chemistry kit which has caused me no end of trauma.'

 

            'I didn't understand that last one... surely if she wanted to experiment, she'd just ask Sherlock.'

 

            'He has a strict no-touching-Papa's-chemicals-or-cadavers rule. She's allowed to observe, and hand him instruments, but she's not allowed to conduct her own chemical experiments until she's thirteen.' John frowns down at the bread, wondering how that deadline had begun to creep up so quickly. 'Normal girls want their ears pierced and ponies for their birthdays. My daughter asked me for a graphic calculator and a mummified cat.'

 

            Mycroft sits up a little straighter. 'Why on earth does she need a graphic calculator?'

 

            John smiles and quotes, 'because I can't expect her to do anything on a calculator without a solid 2GB memory drive.'

 

            As if summoned, Wynn lands on the floor, having jumped the last three stairs. She's changed from her Uncle My's house uniform of jeans and a t-shirt with a robot on it, and is now wearing a pair of brightly tie-dyed purple trousers from Camden and one of Daddy's ancient beige jumpers.

 

            'Wynnfrith, what in Heaven's name are you wearing?'

 

            She looks down at herself, then back up at her uncle. John recognises all too well the expression on her face, because it's a sign of storm clouds on the horizon; it means, clearly, _well, that's a stupid, boring question._

 

            'Clothes,' she answers, sounding bemused, and then grins at John and hugs him, getting herself covered in flour. 'We had the best day, Daddy. We learnt about art history and looked at pictures of Queen Elizabeth looking ill but she had nice, big dresses but they looked hard to walk in. Then we had high tea and I told the waitress that her cat is sick, and Uncle My ordered two cakes and ate most of them both.'

 

            John shoots a look at Mycroft, who is studying Gladstone's ears with intense concentration.

 

            'Then he bought me an icecream and we sat in the park and fed the ducks and then we came home and then you sent me upstairs to change.' She beams at him, and he wonders as he always does how something can be so perfect.

 

            When they'd made the decision to conceive her, they'd mixed their sperm together, the idea being that their baby would be both of them, but the second that Wynnfrith Martha Christie Holmes-Watson had been born, it had been obvious exactly whose swimmers had done the deed. John had never asked where the egg had come from, though he had a good idea, and was strangely alright with that.

 

            Wynn is tall for her age, with skin so pale that John seems to spend half his life smearing her from head to foot in suntan lotion. Her slanting blue-grey eyes are startlingly pale beneath riotously curly, ink-black hair, which is falling out of its braid. John tangles his fingers in it and begins gently pulling it loose as she nearly purrs with appreciation. She loves to be touched by people she trusts, just as Sherlock does, and John feels incredibly sad whenever he considers the idea that Sherlock might have withdrawn from people because no one had ever bothered to touch him enough.

 

            'Can I help with the bread?' she asks, tilting her head into John's fingers as they work loose her hair.

 

            'Apron first, love. And tell me you didn't give that black thing to Papa.'

 

            She grins at him, then skips over to Mycroft, pressing the device into his hand. He looks more than a little shaken by this, and she sheepishly says, 'sorry, Uncle My.'

 

            She presses a kiss to his cheek, and he seems to deflate, all of the anger taken out of him. There's no point arguing or being angry with Wynn; she's too sweet. It's like yelling at a fluffy puppy.

 

            Unfortunately, she's extremely aware of her appeal, and uses it to her advantage ruthlessly. In the tiny specialist school she's in, there's not a soul who hasn't at one stage or another been part of Wynn's experiments into how far she can manipulate people.

 

            He blames the unnamed woman who donated her egg. Certainly, it's not the Holmes part of her that is any good with her fellow human beings.

 

            Sherlock arrives just as Wynn is pulling on the stolen St Barts labcoat she decorated with marker pens and glitter, and which acts as her apron. He scowls at Mycroft, who waves the black device at him with the closest thing to a taunting face the exhausted older man can produce, and then settles back behind John with his arms wrapped around him, in his favourite position.

 

            It occurs to John, as Wynn settles into the space made by his arms against the kitchen worktop and begins to knead the dough, that this is perfect. The three of them, together, wrapped up and safe and warm, baking bread. He presses a kiss to the top of his daughter's head, and she briefly tilts her head, touching her cheek to his arm in acknowledgement.

 

            Mycroft forces himself to his feet, and Gladstone tumbles to the floor, her nails scratching on the floorboards as she scrambles for foothold and then rushes into the kitchen to be a part of the family. Wynn beams at him and wriggles free of her fathers' embrace to throw her floury hands around Mycroft.

 

            He doesn't seem to mind that she's covered in flour, and both John and Sherlock watch with amusement as his eyes drift shut and he holds her close, pressing his cheek to her black curls.

 

            Watching Mycroft with their daughter has been strangely beautiful. He's not a good or a gentle man, but somehow with Wynn, he manages to be both. He and Sherlock still fight and tease each other, but John's now convinced that's mostly because it's the only time either of them feels challenged, and sharing Wynn is healing something between them.

 

            'Natural History Museum next week, Wynnfrith,' he says, and is rewarded with one of her almost inaudibly high-pitched squeals, making a ghost of a smile pass his lips.

 

            'Really? Can we ask them about my beetles?'

 

            Mycroft doesn't seem to know exactly how to answer this, but he smiles again and releases her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, making her giggle. 'Farewell, sweet one.' He looks up and meets John and Sherlock's joint gaze, inclining his head.

 

            John has never seen him look so exhausted, and he shuffles out of the flat, leaving Sherlock to say in a bemused voice, 'he really loves her, doesn't he?'

 

            'He loves you,' John says, leaning back into Sherlock's arms. 'He had to go away to school when you were her age. This is a chance for him to make up for that.'

 

            Wynn wriggles her way back between John's arms and resumes pounding the bread. 'Hear that, Papa?' she asks Sherlock, rolling the dough into a snail shape. 'We're going to ask about my Coleoptera collection.'

 

            'Next time, little mastermind, do you suppose you can get his phone for me?'

 

            Wynn nods, and John elbows his husband in the stomach. 'Wynn, love, you know as well as I do that Papa's perfectly capable of doing his own pickpocketing. Do you want to bake that now?'

 

            She nods, and he helps her stuff the dough into a tin Mrs Hudson bought them last Christmas. As it bakes, Sherlock sweeps her into his arms and the two of them collapse on the sofa, as John washes his hands and grabs some wet-wipes to attack Wynn with.

 

            'Daaaddy,' she calls from Sherlock's lap, 'Doctor Who!'

 

            Their Sunday night tradition of Doctor Who and fresh-bread sandwiches is sacred; Wynn likes routine and Sherlock likes being allowed to eat honey sandwiches for dinner, so John hurries to join them, settling down just as the flat door opens again and Mrs Hudson walks quickly to drop down into her designated armchair.

 

            'Did I miss anything?' She is distacted almost immediately by the state of Wynn. 'Goodness gracious, Wynnfrith, you look like a ghost.'

 

            The little girl grins maniacally and makes what John supposes is meant to be a ghoulish sound, and immediately Sherlock joins in, the two of them wiggling their arms and legs and howling. Gladstone, confused but pleased, adds her contribution to the hubub and it's only when John drops down onto the sofa, settles against his love's side and says commandingly,

 

            'now shut up, it's time for David Tennant,' that they are immediately silenced.

 

            His heart feels too big for his ribs to contain. As she always does, Wynn falls asleep before the second episode is done, and he carries her upstairs, Sherlock following him, chattering away, previous experiments proving that Wynn can sleep through almost anything.

 

            They lay her down in her bed, which is a mattress on the floor surrounded by circuitboards, textbooks on everything from Viking mythology to string theory, collected specimens and fluffy animals. The ceiling and walls were painted by the both of them when they were waiting nervously for her birth, and it shows a starry sky and a green, leafy jungle.

 

            The stars above her are an exact starchart of the night her fathers were married, a private joke between them which goes back to one of their very first cases together. John steps into the shelter of his tall, pale-skinned love's arms and they stand there for a moment, looking down at their daughter.

 

            'I wish I could have known you when you were Wynn's age,' John murmurs, not for the first time.

 

            'I wasn't as brilliant as she is.' Sherlock's voice is coloured with unmistakeable pride as he says words that would have been unthinkable to him a decade ago. 'There's no one like her.'

 

            John thinks, suddenly, that everything is like butterfly wings. Meeting Sherlock, Moriarty, the Fall, his return, even their love, all just single beats of butterfly wings leading to this perfect, still moment in time. Leading to Wynn, and he knows that there was nothing, not a moment of suffering or a shadow of doubt, which wasn't absolutely worth it.

 

            Sherlock leads him to their bedroom, undresses him, and even after so many years, this is never going to be anything less than incredible; Sherlock stroking him, loving him, fighting him for control and then finally, their mouths open and breath bubbling hot and deep between them, Sherlock's body breaching his and they are one, at long last. Together, complete, and all of the world could fall down around their ears and they wouldn't spare a thought.

 

            Then Sherlock is moving, sharp and needy, his beautiful voice saying dark, wanton things into John's ear, and pleasure is jarring, almost uncomfortable in its intensity as it spirals higher, winds tighter.

 

            When finally he sees stars, they're the stars beneath which Wynnfrith sleeps. Their stars.

 

            And in his love's arms,

 

            he is peaceful.


End file.
